Ashes
by Warriorcat890
Summary: In a hoarder's house where cats have been forced to cannibalism, one mother who has already lost two of her kits, struggles to keep her third alive. In her quest for sanctuary, she meets a strange group of cats who are trying to stand against the cannibals. She just wants her son to be safe, but ends up getting caught in the resistance. The first book of The Resistance. All OC.


_Ashes - Prologue_

This is the beginning of a new Warriors fanfic. Basically, it takes place in a hoarder's house, and the main character has just had kits and struggles to raise her one remaining son in this world. They end up getting taken in by a group of cats who are apart of resistance against the cats who live on the main floor upstairs. They have resorted to cannibalism and kill young kits. Even though the main character just wants to keep her son safe and provide for him, she ends up getting caught in the resistance.

There will be no allegiances because cats don't exactly have names in this place.

I do not own Warriors.

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_Ring around the roses_

_A pocketful of posies_

_Ashes, ashes_

_We all fall down_

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**Prologue**

**Life and Death**

_I did not want to have kits._ Not here. Not now. Nevertheless, I lay on my side, panting with exhaustion. Two squirming bundles were already kneading at my belly as they struggled to suckle. One more was one the way. I could feel it as it began its journey inside me toward the exit and into the world. Sweat soaked my fur, causing it to plaster to my body. It was ready. I wasn't. I wanted it to wait. It wouldn't. I dug my claws into the newspaper around me and gave one massive push, and felt the tiny kit slither out into the world.

Three kits.

One mother.

No father.

Wonderful.

All round me, cats were meowing their congratulations as they passed. So many of us lived here in this tiny Twoleg den… It was overcrowded, unhealthy, unsanitary, and dangerous. Definitely not the environment three, fatherless kits should be growing up in. The Twoleg was cruel and fed us little… but at times, I honestly didn't think she could. She was elderly and the den was a wreck, covered in our own waste. The toms were violent and abusive to their mates; they often killed one another over a single she-cat only to force her to mate with the winner—the survivor.

I didn't blame them; they'd been raised that way. We all had.

Never once did I remember being somewhere other than here. I was born in this den of nightmarish horror… and something told me I would die here. And my kits would too. None of us could live here much longer.

Fearful for their lives and knowing that some of the toms were known to eat newborn kittens when food was so scarce, I wrapped my tail around my little ones, herding them close to me. I needed to get them out of here, but that was impossible. It was suicide. My mother always told me that the outside world was full of danger and awful, disgusting things that this den shielded us from, but I beg to differ. I had seen things in this Twoleg den that made bile rise in my throat and my stomach clench. I had seen cats die only to have a bunch of desperate, starving cats that had once been there friend rush to gorge themselves on the carcass. In our starvation, we had been forced to cannibalism. We had become monsters.

I doubted that anything in the outside world could even compare to that.

As I struggled to hide my litter, I noted an old, black and white she-cat with yellow eyes sitting in a corner. I thought I knew her, but I was unsure. There were so many cats here, and so many looked alike. She pulled herself to her paws with much effort and stumbled toward me. The fur on the back of my neck instantly fluffed out, as I bared my fangs. "Don't come any closer!" I snarled, preparing to defend my kits with my life.

She paused in mid-step, one paw lifted. "Do not fear me, Night-Mother. I do not wish to harm your kits. I have come to—"

"Don't even think about congratulating a tragedy," I whispered, my mind in another place. Night-Mother. That was what she called me. I supposed it fit, but whether the night came from the time of day, or the color of my pelt, I did not know. I couldn't even remember my real name. There was no use for names here. We only called each other by simple things that represented us. Still, I felt like I was obligated to name my kits. They deserved that much.

"I wasn't planning on it," the she-cat answered. "I wanted to wish you luck. Being a mother here is never easy."

"I know. Thank you for your well-wishes, Yellow-Eyes. I hope your wishes come true. I will need all the luck I can get," I replied.

She nodded, and padded forward hesitantly, moving awkwardly with her stiff, age-stricken muscles. The she-cat bent her head over my kits and closed her eyes. "May StarClan give you strength and wisdom as a mother to defend your litter, and teach them how to survive. And may your kits have the best of luck throughout their lives."

With that, she turned and left me lying there, my back against the wall in astonishment. StarClan? What did that even mean. "Wait! Yellow-Eyes!" I yowled after her, but she was already gone. I heard the pounding of paws, and brusque voices of tomcats as they headed in my direction. They had heard me call out to the white-and-black she-cat. They would find me and eat my kits. I had to move them!

Hysteria was beginning to take hold of me as I quickly grabbed my youngest kit by the scruff—a brown tabby tom—and pelted off to find a safe place for him. I ran into a dark tunnel, but the ground below my paws seemed to give way. I tumbled down what I heard some call a staircase and hit the cement floor hard. My kit yowled in surprise, and I quickly assessed him. He was not injured. Thank the spirits. The eyes of cats glowed in the darkness from every corner, every shadow , every shelf, every nook and cranny there was. The sight made my heart shatter. There was no hope for me now.

A golden tom came forward. I took a step back, unsheathing my claws. "Back off you mange-pelt!" I hissed through my kit's fur. I was terrified for myself. I was terrified for my son. I was terrified for the kits I left behind, but somehow, some way—and maybe by that of Yellow-Eyes' blessing—I found strength. I found the will to stand and defend him… To defend us.

"Do not fear me, Black-Pelt," he murmured calmly. There are many here, but we do not kill innocent offspring like those above. You and your newborn are welcome here." His voice was deep, but smooth and silky like the softest fur.

I couldn't repress the purr that rose within me. "Thank you, Golden-One."  
The idea of sanctuary caused me to remember my other two kits. I gasped and laid my son on the floor before sprinting back up the stairs. I slid around the corner to the newspaper where my two other kits had lain. They were gone, and drops of blood covered my birthing place… blood that did not come from me.

I had failed.

Sorrow and misery rose within me, consuming me. I threw my head back and yowled in anguish, vowing to seek vengeance for the death of my kits.

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